Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

"We've had a problem. Large quantities of uranium have been missing from plants across the country. We're checking all transport."

"We got our bills of lading."

"I'd like to see them," said the man, putting his badge away. "All of them."

The three drivers returned to their trucks. It was a cold gray sort of day, and they had been looking forward to parking them for good and getting a beer. The trucks idled their big diesels on Kennedy Boulevard, a well-traveled road. Several people stopped to watch.

The man with the badge looked at the bills of lading and mentioned that nowhere did they show a stop in Harlem.

"Oh, that. Yeah. I'll give you the address."

"Wasn't that supposed to be secret?" said the man with the badge. "Weren't you supposed to keep your mouths shut, under any circumstances?"

"You're with the government, ain't ya?"

The man with the badge smiled. He beckoned them closer, returning their bills of lading. Each bill had an envelope with it. Each envelope had a note. It told them to look up. They were being robbed.

The big barrel of the .357 Magnum, a cannon of a pistol, told them to believe what they read. One of them began trembling. He couldn't get off his watch.

"Just a couple of wallets will be fine," he said. They didn't ask why he wanted only two. They thought of themselves as lucky. And this thought lasted less than three seconds because the big barrel of the pistol made flashes. They saw the flashes before they heard the sounds. Sound traveled at six hundred miles per hour.

The .357 Magnum slugs traveled faster, right through their skulls, taking off the tops of their heads, spilling their brains out onto Kennedy Boulevard.

A passing car slowed down, the man jumped in, and was driven to the Bayonne Bridge, a high-rising arch that reached across to Staten Island. At its apex he tossed out his badge. Everything had worked perfectly, just as he had been told. And just as he had been told, he was given his payoff near a public golf course on Staten Island. And this is where the plan changed. He did not get an envelope with thirty thousand dollars in it. He was given, instead, a brand-new shovel and allowed to dig his own grave.

When he finished, he was told not to bother to climb out.

"Hey, buddy. If they are going to pay me off like this," said the man in the open grave, "what do you think they are going to do to you?"

"Give me the shovel," said the man standing above the grave. He had light blond hair and delicate features, and a soft gentle mouth. When he got the shovel he appeared to be offering it back into the grave for help to climb out. But with a tender little giggle, he brought the blade of the shovel around, bludgeoning the larynx of the man already in the grave. Then, with a pleasant little laugh, he covered the body with the fresh earth just before a nearby golfer sliced into the area. The white ball landed in the soft fresh mound of the grave. The golfer walked over, and seeing it half-buried, cursed his luck.

"I mean it is like playing out of sand, right? I mean, is this ground under repair? Because if this is ground under repair, I get a free lift."

"No. You don't get a free lift. It's not ground under repair."

"You're cruel, you know," said the golfer. "You could have said it was ground under repair."

The next day, every Dynamic News station in every Dynamic News locale reported the simple murder for robbery of three drivers for a nuclear plant, and a denial by a government agency that any uranium was missing.

"While we deeply regret the murder/robbery of three of our drivers, we find no reason for a nuclear alarm." This from a government spokesperson.

"But the trucks were empty, weren't they?" This from a newsperson.

"They were empty trucks en route to the main garage in Pennsylvania."

"But were they empty when they started out?"

"Yes."

"Then why were they being driven?"

"To return them to the main garage in Pennsylvania." And the spokesperson assured the press, assured the television cameras and the world, there was nothing to worry about at this time. Everything was under control. In his office just off Wall Street, Harrison Caldwell watched the bullion market take five tons without a quiver. Then he made arrangements to sell twice as much. He had just figured out a way to perfect the gathering of uranium. When you had an infinite amount of money, nothing was impossible.

Chapter 4

It was a disgrace. It was an insult and humiliation almost too much to bear. But Chiun would bear it. He would bear it with dignity and in silence. Though he certainly could have borne it longer if Remo hadn't ignored the silence. For silence ignored was the most insulting if not useless of things. One might as well be a silent rock. And Chiun, Master of Sinanju, was not a rock. When he wasn't talking to someone, the victim had better know it.

"I am silent," he said, with a haughty rise of his gray-and-gold kimono of the day.

"I heard," said Remo. He showed his and Chiun's identification at the large cyclone fence surrounding the McKeesport, Pennsylvania, special nuclear facility. This was only one of the plants where uranium had been stolen. But three trucks destined for this plant did not arrive because their drivers had been robbed and murdered in a small New Jersey city. It sounded suspicious. Three dead men for two wallets containing less than a hundred and fifty dollars. Of course nowadays that kind of thing was as common as a rock in the forest. But there was just no place else to start. All the investigative agencies had come up with nothing. Remo wasn't sure what he could come up with, but he supposed Smitty had wanted a new fresh look.

"I am still silent," said Chiun.

"All right," said Remo. "I am sorry. What are you silent about?"

Chiun turned his head away. When one was silent, one certainly wasn't going to discuss it.

The identification specified that Remo and Chiun were nuclear engineers and they were going to rate the plant, and any plant for that matter, for efficiency. This enabled them to ask any question, no matter how stupid.

Remo asked where the uranium was stored prior to shipment and was told it was not. All uranium had a destination before it was made hot, as they called it. Chiun touched Remo's arm.

"I know, little father, you're silent. Look at this stuff. It's interesting. All those pipes."

"Excuse me, sir," said a guard. "Is there something in particular you're looking at?"

"I'm just amazed by modern technology."

"That's not quite modern, sir. That's a men's room."

"Right," said Remo.

"May I see your identification?"

The guard looked at the two glossy cards that showed vague likenesses of Remo and Chiun as nuclear engineers. The pictures could never quite identify them, but when showed, neither could they be used to prove they weren't who they said they were. The pictures had all the clarity and quality of normal passport photos. "Would you come with me, please, sir."

"No," said Remo. He took back the card, even with the guard's hands following after it.

"You're supposed to come with me. You can get hurt. You don't even have a radiation badge."

"I don't need one. I can feel it."

"Nobody can feel radiation."

"You could if you listened to your body," said Remo. Chiun turned his head away in disgust. It was Remo's nature to attempt to explain things to any sort of fool. One could even smell the odors of cow meat coming from the breath of the guard, and Remo was talking to him about listening to his body. The absurdity of it all. Suddenly Chiun had so many reasons to keep silent that he gave up.

"Fool," he said to Remo. "We have been reduced to speaking to guards, to little spear carriers, to people not even policemen with little square badges and no honor. Why do you waste your time talking to eaters of dead cows?"